


Which Is Beatrice?

by DoreyG



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Age Difference, Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Faint Fanboying, Historical Roleplay, M/M, Much Ado about nothing quotes, Out of context Shakespeare, floor!sex, future!fic, sort of genderplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens Bart is, of <i>course</i>, wearing a <i>damned dress</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Which Is Beatrice?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Historical Roleplay square on my Kink_Bingo, and thus (I think) completing two bingos at the same time! (Horizontal and vertical, yay~.) I should note here, for guilt compels me, that Bart is twenty one in this and so legal pretty much everywhere. And also that they really did put the younger male members of the company in dresses and make them play ladies in Shakespearean times (Though, er, I think most people know that)!

The first time it happens Bart is, of _course_ , wearing a _damned dress_.

He wasn’t even _trying_ to kill the boy, or man since he’d somehow grown to twenty one years old without anybody noticing, this time. He was pursuing his primary passion, his _original_ one, his _destined_ one – a role on stage, finely dancing through life… As a nobly backing watchman instead of his true destiny as Benedick, granted, but it was a _start_!

A start in an all male production, harking back to the pure times of the original Shakespearian stage (without all the dung, and peasants, and peasants covered in dung).

…A start in an all male production where _Bart_ , that damned stain on his life that never stops seeping, had somehow won the role of the savagely witty Beatrice.

A start in an all male production which Bart helplessly, and gleefully, _ruined_.

And that was how they ended up back in his shack, even more cracked and peeling and downright _freezing_ after eleven odd years of neglect, with Bart still in his skirts and his teeth grinding together as he moves towards the laughing _bastard_.

“That was fun,” Bart muses eventually, after catching his breath – his face flushed in the dim light, a smile curving his utterly obnoxious lips, “I should do more acting, y’know. It might actually be my _path_ in life.”

He feels like his teeth might fall out, shatter on the floor as he continues his unstoppable advance, “you were an abomination.”

“I know,” Bart seems to consider that for a second, comes back with a somehow _brighter_ beam, “brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“You performed half the lines in various comedy accents.”

“The audience all laughed!”

“You _set the stage on fire_.”

“They put it out!”

“You don’t _know_ that!” He yells – and _leaps_ towards that laughing throat, that floppy blonde hair, those mocking _eyes_ that have driven him to madness and back and from Italy and from Springfield and into a downright _hell_ that has lasted ten years and shows no signs of abating.

Bart, of course, dodges - leads him on a merry dance across the floor with his skirts whipping and his chest still heaving with laughter, “you really _wanted_ this play to go well, didn’t you?”

He growls in response, makes another sharp grab for Bart’s tender little throat.

“Do you like that Shakespeare dude _that_ much?”

He snarls again, swipes a fist at that pretty face (still made up) in a vague attempt to cause some sort of _pain_.

“Or did you just like the thought that you could be anything more than an occasionally imprisoned murderer living in a shack and trying to scrounge up enough money for child support?”

He _screeches_ , an undignified sound but _extremely_ justified in this case, dives at Bart with his claws out and his knees coming up and his _everything_ (as physically impossible as that sounds) reaching for flesh and blood and _screams_ as the brat gets his comeuppance-

“Or maybe you just wanted to spend a little longer staring at men in skirts,” Bart just dodges again, somehow manages to catch his wrist as he spins around to follow, “always knew you were a bit of a perv, Bob.”

…There’s a long pause.

He jerkily drags his wrist out of Bart’s grip, is faintly surprised when the man actually lets him go, “there’s nothing _wrong_ with being attracted to a man in drag, Bartholomew.”

“I know,” Bart agrees briefly, pleasantly.

Bafflingly. Though Bart has always been that: ever since the first time he’d stared down in disbelief at the brat who’d been the only one cunning enough to defeat him, “then why did you…?”

“Being attracted to a man in a skirt isn’t particularly pervy, Bob,” Bart interrupts him softly, still so very _pleasant_ , “but being attracted to a guy who you’ve tried to kill, oh, a billion times in a skirt is a _tiny_ bit pervalicious.”

…He stares.

Bart continues smiling pleasantly.

“…I have not tried to kill you a million times,” is the only thing that comes to mind. And even then it only comes slow and stumbling and half formed in an _entirely_ irritating way, “that is hyperbole. You’d never get published in the New York Times if you did _that_ -“

“I’d get on Fox, though,” Bart interrupts again, and suddenly he’s _leering_ pleasantly, “The Jerry Springer Show, maybe. ‘The man who tried to kill me a billion times now fancies me when I’m dressed as a Shakespearian chick.’ I can see my mother crying now.”

“The Jerry Springer Show is a NBC production,” he manages through gritted teeth, steadily getting _angry_ again, “and Beatrice is _not_ ‘a Shakespearian chick’-!”

“No” …Bart’s agreement is surprisingly quick, his expression actually apologetic as he takes a slow step back, “no, she’s not.”

“…She’s not.”

“We’ve both already agreed there, Bob,” it’s good that the man, the helplessly _awful_ man, immediately goes right back to rolling his eyes – or else they would’ve found common ground and that would’ve been _deeply_ disturbing in _many_ ways.

…Almost as disturbing as Bart’s returning _leer_ , “I have to wonder, though. What would dear Jerry do when I added ‘and I fancy him back’?”

Almost as disturbing as-

Almost-

…Okay, his brain appears to have broken down. That’s new. And _definitely_ disturbing. And _new_. And-

He stares silently at Bart for a moment. Bart leers disturbingly (and only disturbingly: not at all attractively or _temptingly_ ) in reply.

“Oh,” and that’s the only thing he can find to say. Literally the only thing that doesn’t involve him ending up back in jail with blood in his hands or running out into the street and screaming or flailing down to the floor and remaining there for a _long_ while “…What, my dear Lady Disdain. Are you yet living?”

“Are you talking to the universe in general or me in particular, Bob?” and that was obviously, _obviously_ , the wrong (right, so right, absolutely _right_ ) thing to splutter judging by the sudden glitter in Bart’s eyes, “if me in particular… Is it possible disdain should die while she has such meet food to feed it as Signor Sideshow?”

And…

Oh, _fuck_.

“It’s _Terwilliger_ ,” he _hisses_ , and slams his mouth hungrily down.

He’s never dreamed of kissing Bart before, well maybe _sometimes_ after the man turned eighteen and he noticed how those shoulders were filling out and those eyes were becoming more amused every time he popped up holding an axe and his wife had left him for a successful mass murdering career on the continent, but even if he had it’d _still_ probably be a surprise: Bart kisses with a certain amount of experience, a certain cocky swagger that lends itself so wonderfully to the arts of lust.

He sways for a second, caught in that limpet like grasp.

And suddenly they’re both _down_ , sprawling across the floor with Bart on top of him and fine skirts all over the place. He thuds his head back against the boards briefly, stares up at that dazzling smirk above him…

“You actually _liked_ the play.”

Watches as Bart laughs, _snorts_ , leans back in to nibble a steady (arousing, his back helplessly arches) line down his neck, “will you not tell me who told you so?”

“I-“ he stops, manages a blink through the lust clouding his brain, “no, you shall pardon me.”

“I _shan’t_ ,” manages a blink despite the baffling Bart above him, switching back to his normal uncultured tongue like that isn’t a _completely senseless_ thing to do, “for you’re a failure of a murderer, Bob, who hasn’t gotten laid in the past eleven years.”

“…I have a _child_ -“ he protests weakly.

“ _Sure_ you do,” Bart only winks strongly, places a particularly hard _bite_ right over his collarbone, “but did you actually put your dick in to sire it?”

… _Right_.

“Thou whoreson, senseless villain,” he hisses, in a brief break from both character and canon (he’s talented, he can handle anything), and shoves determinedly _up_.

…Which doesn’t change anything for, after a brief bout of tumbling, Bart _still_ remains on top. Flush extending down into his bodice, mouth still cruelly laughing, fingers puzzlingly _possessive_ as they lock back around his wrists and pin him inescapably to the floor, “well?”

“Fair Beatrice,” he offers begrudgingly, attempting a helpless wriggle, “I thank you for your pains.”

“I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,” Bart purrs softly, leaning in to nuzzle hotly at the fineness of his ruff, “if it had been painful, I would not have… _Come_.”

There is another one of those pauses, a _necessary_ one this time.

“ _Bastard_ ,” he breaks from the script yet again, and drags Bart’s mouth up for a savage _bite_.

It, truthfully, moves pretty quickly after that: Bart’s mouth barely breaking from his to ensure the opening of his breeches, his throat choking roughly around cries as a faintly calloused hand curves around his cock and _strokes_ in such a deeply glorious way.

He blinks when a pot of lube is produced in front of his nose, has to bite back a shaky smile as Bart _smirks_ at him.

The skirts are harder to get up, he wonders how women _managed_ in those days, but eventually Bart is naked from the waist down with his dress fluffed up between them. He prepares to snatch the lube from Bart, to flip the man onto his back, to thrust roughly into him and make him _scream_ …

Is mildly surprised when Bart’s fingers close briefly around him again, when Bart’s eyes glitter amusedly down, “for others say thou dost deserve, and I believe it better than reportingly.”

“… _What_? Who says that I-?”

The shock of a thick finger sliding into him is enough to halt the protest on his lips, and _maybe_ replace it with a shuddering cry instead. Bart smirks at that, adds a second finger that has him grasping for pleasantly muscular arms. Finishes with a _third_ finger as his nails dig in and he lets out another _agonized_ cry.

The wait while Bart slicks himself up, ever so thoroughly, is the greatest torture that he’s ever experienced.

But, oh thank fuck thank fuck thank _fuck_ , it is absolutely and utterly _worth_ it. For the feeling when Bart slides in is absolutely the best thing that he’s ever experienced: hot and blissful and hot and perfect and so _hot_ that the centre of the sun is probably turning bright (and disturbingly) green at this very moment.

“May a man do it?” He manages to choke, _pleased_ at such envy-

And Bart, and that’s the closest he’s ever come to blessing the man, only _smirks_ at that obviously out of context snippet – starts slowly, _gloriously_ , thrusting. His face thankfully losing its composure within the first few seconds.

The man starts off slow, steady, almost teasing. His hips pump in a gentle motion: barely fast enough for satisfaction, barely fast enough for even _pleasure_ if he hadn’t been painfully hard before Bart had even slipped a finger inside him. And thus, _thus_ , he makes a painful pleading sound, a desperate choke that almost gets lost in the sounds of skin against skin-

A choke that Bart _heeds_ : suddenly going faster, stronger, _harder_. The slap of skin against skin turns almost _deafening_. The waves of pleasure render him almost _blind_. He probably loses other functions but he doesn’t have a brain fit to _count_ them. The world quickly reduces to only Bart: only Bart’s skin and lips and cock and that dazed look of pleasure in his eyes that holds him absolutely _rapt_.

And it is perfect.

As Bart keeps up the pace, shaking with the effort but still keeping their faces only inches away from each other.

And it is brilliant.

As Bart sneaks a slow hand between them, wraps it around his cock (still barely out of his breeches) and starts to steadily pump in a way that almost has his eyes rolling back in his head.

And it is _blissful_.

As Bart tilts up, as Bart tilts fucking _up_ , and hits that perfect place inside him and oh fuck and oh yes and oh _fuck_ and his entire world is suddenly light and beauty and glory and _true_ perfection-

And-

The speed at which he comes, explosive and screeching, really isn’t a surprise. He can only hold on, close his eyes and hope for the _very_ best.

…When he returns to himself Bart is nuzzled into his chest: lips soft against the skin of his neck, hands gentle on his hips, eyes peacefully closed in an innocent way that’d be so easy to tear from this world-

“Bob,” the man reminds him quietly.

“I will live in thy heart,” he replies promptly instead of an apology, for it may have been truly _fantastic_ sex but there is no need to go that far _quite_ yet, “die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes; and, moreover-“

Bart is already laughing at him, pushing himself up on his elbows to slap his chest affectionately - _affectionately_. No fear, no anger, no murderous _rage_ as his fingers gently rest there, “come now, Bob, I think we can skip to the very _best_ bit.”

…He sighs, almost affectionately himself, “the best bit-?”

He should’ve expected the kiss.

…Should’ve expected, despite the dress and the ruined play and the anger and all the _years_ of trying to crush this annoying bug constantly hovering around his head, that the first time it happened would most _certainly_ not be the last time.


End file.
